


of imagination, all compact

by akaparalian



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Developing Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Gen, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19036576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: “Well, we can’t justleave him here,” Dex snarls, pacing back and forth and occasionally raking his hands through his hair so violently that it’s started to stick out in all directions. “Personally, I’m thinking I should turn him into an earthworm and leave him out on a rock to fry.”“You can’t turn me into an earthworm,” the stranger calls dismissively from the other end of the glade, where Dex had ordered him to stand so that he and Chowder could discuss amongst themselves how best to ‘deal with him.’ He’d acquiesced, at least in the sense of physically going over to where Dex had told him to go, but he hasn’t exactly been letting them get on with their business without input.“Andwhy not?” Dex snarls, spinning around to glare at him.“Dex,” Chowder points out, as calmly as possible, “youcan’tturn him into an earthworm. You’re terrible at that sort of thing.”Or: the lunatic, the lover, and the poet.





	of imagination, all compact

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Reverse Bang! This fic was inspired by some [TRULY GORGEOUS ART](https://zim-tits.tumblr.com/post/185259268670/the-lunatic-the-lover-and-the-poet-of) (which will also be embedded in the fic) by zim-tits on tumblr! I love writing in this kind of setting; it's a lot of fun!
> 
> The title and summary are from Midsummer Night's Dream, because like... I had to? Sorry not sorry.
> 
>  

Chowder has known, even since the beginning — even since _before_ the beginning — that this would end in disaster. Still, in some ways the Fair Folk deal in disaster, and he and Dex are certainly no strangers to it. So when Dex decides to steal the poet, he doesn’t quite think to put a stop to it in time.

In his defense, he certainly never imagines that stealing the poet will result in anything beyond the _typical_ level of disaster. Dex has always seemed to have a knack for finding the truly odd ones, and then getting enormously irritated with them even as he drags them by their ear off to court to live out the rest of their human lifetimes in a haze of fae revelry and music, colored smoke and too-sweet fruits. And when they first find the poet, they find him sleeping, so there’s really no way that Chowder _could_ have known exactly what they were getting themselves into.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, peering around the tree while the human man slumbers against its base, but he’s grinning, pleased enough, himself, in the mischief-making — he _is_ fae; sometimes some of his fellows tell him he’s awfully soft on the round-eared folk among them, but he isn’t exactly opposed to having a bit of fun with them all the same — so that any note of warning in his voice is easily undercut by his appearance. Dex, certainly, doesn’t seem bothered by it, his own face alight with something wild and joyful, his golden eyes glowing. 

“I found him,” he says, not even really bothering to lower his voice. He doesn’t need to, in fairness; the man seems out like a light. “I get first crack.”

“I’m not trying to cut in,” Chowder says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to check that you were sure before we got into it. You get so _intense_.”

“I do not get _intense_ ,” Dex scoffs. 

Chowder stares around the tree at him, one eyebrow slowly rising. Dex scowls briefly at him, though there’s no real irritation in his face, only acknowledgement of the good-natured ribbing — nothing at all like what he’s like when he’s actually furious. 

“Well, if I do get intense, then they deserve it,” he says stubbornly, and leans forward, around the tree, to get closer to the poet.

(Maybe he’s not a poet; Chowder supposes they haven’t actually met the man. But if Dex has a knack for finding the truly odd humans, Chowder has a knack for usually being able to get one good look at them and find out as much as he truly needs to know about them, an intuition which has served him well. So, really, he rather thinks that the man is a poet. 

Besides, the man has a thick volume in red leather clutched loosely in one hand, open as though he’d been reading or writing, and a quill pen dangling from the other hand, crushed against the grass. He’s either a writer or a naturalist, out here in the woods for inspiration, and he doesn’t have enough grass stains on his knees for the latter. As for the former, Chowder’s never known a novelist to wear a loose and billowy shirt so open at the front, but poets — poets like the romance of the look, and tend to be much more dedicated to aesthetics regardless.

Chowder knows what he’s talking about. He’d bet his left arm that the man is a poet.)

It’s impossible to quite catch what Dex whispers into the man’s ear, but Chowder catches the timbre of it: nothing cruel, nothing cold, and in fact a bit the opposite. The tone and tune of the words are lush and tempting; not seductive, precisely — Chowder has never known Dex to have an outright, classically seductive bone in his body, and they’ve known one another for a long, long, long time, though there is, of course, a first time for everything — but entirely inviting. The words sound nothing at all like the sharp, impish glee on Dex’s face, and at this point, Chowder understands just enough of what’s coming to roll his eyes heavenward, though not enough to try and intervene in any way. 

When Dex’s words fade off into nothing, there’s a beat of silence, his voice falling away like a soft rustle of autumn leaves. Chowder holds his breath, both eyebrows creeping higher and higher on his forehead as he waits for a reaction — any reaction — from the poet, who’s still sleeping, apparently undisturbed, up against the trunk of the tree.

Then there’s a soft rustle, as the man’s weight shifts slightly, and then a sniffle, as he turns his head toward Dex and toward the empty space in the air were Dex’s voice had been. And then, all at once, he startles awake, jumping so violently back from the land of dreams that he manages to snap his quill in half, send his book flying through the air to land in a bush several feet away, and knock his head back directly into the trunk of the tree, making a sound loud enough to be _entirely_ worrying.

There’s another beat of silence. Chowder and Dex are both staring down at the man, expressions blank with surprise, and the stranger, for his own part, is staring up into the canopy of the trees above him, his eyes wide as saucers, his chest heaving with shock. Then, slowly — very slowly — his eyes slide down and back, and his neck cranes a little, so that he can peer around the trunk of the tree at Dex. Chowder watches with rapt attention as the man’s eyes track slowly from Dex’s bare chest, to his luminous eyes, to the tips of his pointed ears; interestingly enough, the man doesn’t appear to have noticed that Chowder is there at all, yet.

Then, very carefully, the stranger says, “Oh, fuck.”

Immediately, Dex bristles, and Chowder feels the first real pang of what his life is about to become. In that moment, he knows truer fear than any he has ever felt.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Dex immediately spits, rearing back and shoving away from the tree so that he can draw himself up to his full height, stomping around the trunk and standing over his intended target with his arms crossed over his chest.

There’s one last final beat of hesitation before the stranger is scrambling to his feet, too, and for just a moment Chowder feels a flash of hope that he might, for example, trip over his own feet on the way up and defuse the situation somewhat — based on his spectacular, spastic reaction earlier, it doesn’t seem that far-fetched — before his dreams are soundly dashed when the stranger unfolds himself and comes to stand nose-to-nose with Dex, both of them tall and broad-shouldered and looking more and more like they might just start throwing punches.

True, Dex is in some ways a less-than-conventional faerie, bur a fistfight with a human man in the middle of the woods is probably something Chowder should try to prevent.

“I just wasn’t expecting this _now_ ,” the stranger says; his voice is smooth and warm, though currently a little cottony-sounding with sleep and raw surprise. “I mean, I haven’t even published yet — doesn’t this part come later? How did you even _find_ me?”

“How did — ” Dex sputters. “ _This part_ — ”

Chowder finally pipes up, clearing his throat delicately to give the man a chance to jump in surprise again — thankfully much less dramatically this time — and spin around to look at him leaning up against the side of the tree _before_ he’s actually started speaking.

“Have you been… expecting us?” he asks delicately, because fields and flowers only know that Dex, his face slowly turning redder and redder as he gets closer and closer to truly spitting mad, isn’t going to get to the bottom of things in any logical way at this rate.

Sensing, perhaps, a potential ally in the face of Dex’s building rage, the man smiles at him a little sheepishly and reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. “Well, I mean,” he says, “don’t the fair folk always come for great artists, eventually?”

Not _always_ , but Chowder isn’t much of a pedant, and Dex is too busy generally fuming — he’s actually giving off little cloud of smoke now, whisps coming out of his ears as he opens and shuts his mouth a little, apparently too shocked to speak — to latch onto such a little thing at this particular moment. 

“And… you’re a great artist?” Chowder asks as pragmatically as he can manage, trying not to sound _too_ dubious, but also giving the man a subtle once-over, just in case he’s missed some detail that would identify him as a famous bard whom they have heretofore failed to recognize. He’s dressed plainly enough, though, and a discreet glance at the journal that had been flung so unceremoniously into a nearby bush reveals no conspicuously-printed name, or even initials.

In the face of Chowder’s doubt, though, the man just smiles easily and shrugs, a casual confidence that suddenly seems to almost light him up from the inside. “A great poet? I will be,” he says, and intuitively — instinctively — Chowder believes him.

Unfortunately, Dex does too. This is only unfortunate because Dex appears to be realizing it only now, when he’s already spitting mad, and not earlier, when he might have been level-headed enough to use it to his advantage.

“ _You_ don’t get to decide that,” he says caustically, evidently finally finding it in himself to speak again. 

The poet, in turn, turns away from Chowder to stare at Dex again, one eyebrow quirking up, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Oh, and you do, _my lord?_ ”

Part of Chowder thinks, _ah, good, clearly the children of men are still being taught to refer to us with respectful titles._

The smarter, larger part of Chowder thinks, _oh no._

“‘My lord’?” Dex echoes, very slowly. All at once his voice seems to have been emptied of all emotion, leaving behind only an almost mild blankness.

The stranger just inclines his head, his gray-green eyes twinkling in the dappled light of the woods, and sketches a little bow, sweeping one arm back behind him dramatically. It’s really almost surprisingly elegant, what with his extraordinary display of a lack of bodily control earlier, and it’s certainly the kind of charmingly barbed gesture which would, Chowder can’t help but think, fit in very well at court. 

Unfortunately, his positive assessment of the gesture does not seem to be at all universal. Dex’s screech of frustration and rage can probably be heard for miles and miles all around. Chowder shuts his eyes and laments, for just a moment, that he was ever born.

—

“Well, we can’t just _leave him here_ ,” Dex snarls, pacing back and forth and occasionally raking his hands through his hair so violently that it’s started to stick out in all directions. “Personally, I’m thinking I should turn him into an earthworm and leave him out on a rock to fry.”

“You can’t turn me into an earthworm,” the stranger calls dismissively from the other end of the glade, where Dex had ordered him to stand so that he and Chowder could discuss amongst themselves how best to ‘deal with him.’ He’d acquiesced, at least in the sense of physically going over to where Dex had told him to go, but he hasn’t exactly been letting them get on with their business without input.

“And _why not?_ ” Dex snarls, spinning around to glare at him.

“Dex,” Chowder points out, as calmly as possible, “you _can’t_ turn him into an earthworm. You’re terrible at that sort of thing.”

“But _he_ shouldn’t know that!” Dex argues, turning back to Chowder to throw his hands up in the air.

Chowder supposes he has a point — there’s no way for the stranger to have _actually_ known that — but he also supposes it’s probably not too hard to tell that Dex is mostly just spewing empty threats at the moment. Chowder’s tactic is to let him get it all out, and let his initial surge of anger — hopefully — run its course, but if the stranger keeps interjecting, that’s going to take quite a bit longer than expected.

He sighs, a soft little gust of sound, and looks over at their erstwhile target. Chowder hums a little, then calls across to him, “By the way, what can we call you?”

It’s one part genuine question — it feels wrong to just keep thinking of him as “the stranger” — and one part test. The stranger smiles at him, a dimple popping in one cheek; the man, Chowder must admit, is _eminently_ charming. He finds that tends to help, when one is interested in becoming a great poet. Charm tends to separate the romantic, mysterious poets from the droll ones who stay indoors all the time and mostly just frown at their pens.

“Der —” the man starts to say, and Dex perks up instantly, a grin creeping over his face as though he can’t help it. Cheering him up wasn’t really Chowder’s intent at all, but he’ll certainly take it.

The stranger catches himself just in time, though, and coughs rather conspicuously, obviously trying to cover up his near-miss and obviously failing. “Uh, Nursey,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “I’m called Nursey.”

“Damn it,” Dex sighs, not bothering to lower his voice at all. “That was close, too.”

“I figured you’d be a little past the point now of trying to trick me into coming with you,” Nursey says, quirking one eyebrow and smirking in a way that suggests he’s not bothered at all by the idea, which either means he’s a moron, or he really _is_ bothered and doing a fairly good job of hiding it. At this point in their admittedly brief acquaintance, Chowder is willing to bet that it’s the latter.

“Sorry,” Chowder tells him, smiling his own most angelic smile and shrugging apologetically. “I promise that wasn’t really my intent — at least, not really. It just seemed like we were going to need to know what to call you sooner or later.”

“Of course,” Nursey agrees, inclining his head, but with just enough steel in his voice to make it clear that he isn’t really buying it, regardless.

“To be perfectly honest,” Chowder continues, taking a few steps across the clearing towards where Dex banished Nursey so that they could not-at-all-discretely decide his fate, “and I’m sure you’ve probably heard that we fae can’t lie, so trust that I _am_ being honest —”

“What are you doing?” Dex mutters out of the corner of his mouth, shooting Chowder a narrow-eyed look. Chowder just smiles back at him.

“We _did_ intend on tricking you,” he tells Nursey, looking him directly in the eyes and dropping the smile a little bit. “That’s what Dex was trying to do, absolutely. We were going to bring you to court. Not because you’re any kind of great artist — uh, not that you aren’t! Or won’t be!” he adds quickly, throwing his hands up quickly and waving them a bit. “That just isn’t why we picked you!”

Nursey nods his head slowly, looking suddenly much more out of sorts. “I… see,” he says, blinking a little. “But then why _did_ you, uh, pick me?”

“Well,” Chowder says, tapping his chin with one finger. “I’m not sure exactly how to explain it to a human, to be perfectly honest. You just never quite seem to _get_ this sort of thing. I suppose it’s just… the road we followed today led us straight to you, you know?”

“Like fate?” Nursey asks. From behind Chowder, Dex makes a low noise of rage at that comment.

“A little,” Chowder says, wiggling one hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “If you want to put it in grand terms, I guess. Besides — it may not seem like it, but Dex can _always_ tell when we’ve found someone interesting, so I guess you have him to blame, really. He must have seen something interesting in you.”

“ _Chowder!”_ Dex cries out sharply from behind him, sounding angry enough that Chowder actually turns, surprised. He hadn’t been expecting that kind of reaction, but Dex looks spitting mad all over again, and a little hurt — and _definitely_ embarrassed, as red in the face as Chowder has ever seen him. 

Chowder blinks, fascinated. _Huh_ , he thinks, and the past few minutes start to take on an entirely different tone in his mind.

He turns back to look at Nursey again, who’s now glancing back and forth between them like he’s trying to figure out what he missed. He’s certainly noticed that _something_ is up — Chowder supposes it would be pretty hard to miss an outburst like that — but to anyone who knows Dex any less well than Chowder does, his exact reaction is probably at least a _little_ mystifying. Indeed, Nursey, at least, doesn’t seem to understand.

Still, he’s smart enough, Chowder thinks, to try to defuse the situation, in his own unique way.

“Interesting, huh?” he says, sounding proud as a peacock, and — astonishingly — it works like a charm; instantly, Dex goes from _genuinely_ upset to regular old huffing and puffing. Chowder would almost call it a kind of magic all its own.

“Interesting is one word for it,” he snarls, and then snarls again when Nursey just smirks at him.

“You couldn’t actually force me to come with you, could you?” Nursey says, the question more than likely intended for Chowder even though he’s still staring down Dex.

_We could_ , Chowder thinks, which is true; and besides that, he doesn’t doubt that Nursey knows it, deep down, or at least has heard stories. He knows how the humans love their faerie stories. But it’s equally true that they _wouldn’t_ , and he doesn’t doubt that Nursey now knows that, too. Chowder isn’t the only one in the world with a good intuition for people, after all, and especially for telling good folk from bad. “Not as such,” he finally settles on, though Dex is muttering darkly next to him a litany of all the ways that they absolutely _could_. The only thing about it that doesn’t worry him is that he’s known Dex for longer than most humans have been alive, and in all that time he’s never once known him to even think about actually doing a single one of the things he’s muttering about. Nursey smiles at him, sunny but a little understated, and shrugs his shoulders wryly. “Then you’ll have to convince me, right?” he asks simply, eyes shining with mischief. _Oh no_ , Chowder thinks again. it’s beginning to feel, in fact, like that is all he will think _ever_ again, at least unless he sees reason leaves both Dex and Nursey here to fight each other to the ground on their own time and their own terms.

Chowder knows that, deep down, even Dex must have a limit when it comes to how irritated it is possible for him to become over the things other people though. Nursey, however, already seems to be challenging any such limit, if in fact it does exist.

“I don’t have to convince you of _anything_ ,” Dex says, stalking across the forest floor to Nursey with a look on his face that could probably drop a lesser man all on its own, “you half-brained, round-eared —”

“He’s right,” Chowder interjects, doing his best to cut Dex off at the pass. The shock of his outburst actually achieves some level of success; Dex whips back around to stare at him, betrayed, and Chowder shrugs, lifting his hands in surrender.

“He is, Dex, he’s right. You _know_ neither one of us would ever actually force him to come with us against his will, and since we’ve already failed at tricking him — I mean, clearly he’s cleverer than most, we _both_ failed to get him — and if neither of those things worked, then we’re going to have to convince him to come to court with us of his own free will.” 

There’s a beat of silence, where Nursey looks at Chowder with his eyebrows raised and a small smile curling his lips and Dex looks at him like he’s completely unrecognizable. Then, scattering birds from the trees for miles around, there’s a scream of rage and frustration so full of feeling that even Chowder shivers to hear it.

—

“I can’t _believe_ this,” Dex fumes, pacing back and forth in their kitchen like he’s trying to wear a hole in the floor. “I can’t _believe_ him. I can’t believe _you!_ ” he adds, shooting Chowder a glare over his shoulder without even pausing in his pacing.

The glares lost their sting quite some time ago, though Dex has managed to keep up this bad mood for a remarkably long time, even for him.

“You got yourself into this mess in the first place,” he points out, not even bothering to make eye contact from where he’s fussing with some potatoes by the wash-basin, scrubbing them briskly to get the dirt off. “You were the one who managed to flub getting him to come with us first — so don’t take this out on me. Be mad at yourself if you’re going to be mad at someone.”

They’ve been back at court for four days now — four long, grueling days, during which Dex’s irritation hasn’t let up even a little. They left Nursey back in the woods just where they found him, with the promise that they _would_ be back to see him again, though Chowder’s beginning to regret offering his word, because at this rate, by the time Dex cools down enough that going back topside would seem like a good idea, Nursey will probably be old and gray.

Suffice to say — though Dex is his dearest friend, and he loves him with all his heart — Chowder’s patience is beginning to run a little thin.

“And besides that,” he continues, just as Dex opens his mouth to speak again, cutting him off before he can get a word in edgewise, “you’ve dealt with less-than-pleasant people before — certainly less pleasant people than Nursey. Sure, he seemed very… self-assured—”

“Arrogant prick,” Dex mutters.

“--but I don’t think he’s _actually_ an arrogant prick in the way that some of your more interesting finds have been. So what’s the _difference_ , Dex?” he asks, turning away from his potatoes and finding that he’s getting a little worked up himself, now that he’s finally spoken up after four long days of listening to Dex seethe and moan. “What’s the problem _now?_ Why _this time?_ ”

Dex stands there and just stares at him for a long, heavy moment; Chowder’s chest is heaving a little, and though Dex opens and closes his mouth several times as if to speak, no sound and all comes out. Finally, he simply turns away, color high in his cheeks, a clear refusal to answer and yet an answer all the same.

If Chowder needed any further evidence of the theory which has been slowly developing in the back of his mind since Dex first laid eyes on Nursey in the woods, then he certainly has it now. He fights the urge to say _Oh no_ out loud.

But, well, he certainly has his answer now — of course Nursey got under Dex’s skin so quickly and effectively, if all the time Dex was trying to fight being attracted to him. It makes perfect sense, and there’s a certain vindication in it, too, a feeling that Chowder’s sneaking suspicions were right — that his intuition, which has never failed him before, was once again correct.

He turns back to his potatoes, giving Dex the chance to slink from the room with his tail between his legs with at least _some_ degree of dignity and giving himself a chance to think at the same time. 

One thing, he decides, is immediately clear: Dex is _useless_. Not generally, or at least Chowder doesn’t think so, though he’s sure that opinions within the court may vary — Dex’s temper has earned him a certain reputation — but certainly in this regard. He’s already demonstrated clearly enough that he’s the farthest thing from level-headed when it comes to Nursey, and that’s not going to be helpful if their ultimate goal is to convince him to come back with him. Screaming at him, for example, doesn’t seem like it’s going to be an effective technique.

Which means that — because Dex is Chowder’s dearest friend in all the world, and because it’s been far too long since Chowder has seen him truly happy, and because he’s become very convinced over the past few days that if Nursey is capable of making Dex _this_ upset, and if he truly is a good person, then he must also be capable of making Dex incredibly, incredibly happy — Chowder is going to have to mastermind getting Nursey to join them at court himself.

He sighs over his potatoes. The things he does for friendship.

—

“This is a lovely place,” Chowder says, ducking his head as he steps into Nursey’s house. It’s small, and situated right at the edge of the woods, but it _is_ very nice; either he’s already a far more successful poet than he had let on, or he comes from a well-to-do family, not that there are terribly many well-to-do human families in this part of the world, as Chowder understands it. Most of the royalty and such live in bigger cities, nearer to the coast; the town where Nursey seems to live is much smaller, a sleepy little hamlet halfway in the woods. Still, even in a town like this, a house this nice is usually a sign of wealth — perhaps _especially_ in a town like this.

“Thank you,” Nursey says, sounding almost baffled. “I never really — wow. I never really expected to have one of the fair folk compliment me on my interior decorating.”

Chowder flashes some dimples at him. “We do tend to have an eye for beautiful things.”

“Right,” Nursey says. He stands there in the center of what seems to be the main room in the house — there’s an overstuffed chair in one corner and bookshelves all around, and several half-drunk cups of wine and tea on various shelves and ledges — and stares at Chowder, who is, admittedly, somewhat out of place in this very human scene. No fae house would ever have candle-lamps when instead it could have witchlight, and no fae kitchen would ever have a kettle starting to scream over a wood-burning stove when you could simply heat the water yourself with little effort. There are a million little things that make it clear that this place is very different than the place that Chowder calls home, and Nursey himself is a very different person who lives a very different kind of life.

Still. There’s something about him — and whatever it is, and whatever _else_ Dex may have noticed about him, Dex certainly must have noticed it first, as soon as he first laid eyes on him — that so obviously marks him as _special_ , something just as outside the ordinary as Chowder or Dex or any of the other fae, in his own unique way.

“Uh, I should get — do you want tea?” Nursey calls over his shoulder, rushing to take the kettle off the stove. “Do you even _drink_ tea? I mean, normal tea? I mean, human tea? I mean—”

“I’d love some,” Chowder interrupts, cutting him off at the pass before he can get too far afield with that line of thinking. “Thank you.”

He follows Nursey into the kitchen, stopping to peer curiously at the titles of the books on the shelves and peek into drawers which are resting half-open as he goes. The place isn’t exactly a pigsty, but it’s certainly not tidy, either; there are little bits of clutter and detritus everywhere, objects that are clearly out of place and a general aura of mess that makes the small house feel lived in, but also a little claustrophobic. Still, even the mess can’t hide the gorgeous rug in front of the small, neatly-made fireplace or the obvious price behind Nursey’s very extensive collection of tomes from lands far and wide.

“Speaking of ‘an eye for beautiful things,’” Nursey says, as he pours the tea, pulling Chowder out of his observations, “how did you find where I lived? I mean, I’m not _that_ surprised to see you, but just — curious, I suppose.”

“Hm?” Chowder says, blinking at him for a moment. “Oh! Well, tracking you back here was easy enough, now that I’ve met you and you’ve made a significant impact on me. And this house feels _very_ strongly of you; it’s clear you’ve been very happy here.”

“I have,” Nursey agrees, peering at Chowder over his shoulder as he pours the tea and then hissing when he spills a bit of hot water on his hand. “The fact that you can tell that is — incredible. I have _so_ many questions for you.”

“I could answer most of them, I’m sure, but it would take a while,” Chowder says. He accepts a mug of tea and shoots Nursey a smile that hopefully makes it clear he’s half-joking. (But only _half-_ joking.) “If you really want to know all that many things, you should probably come back to court with me. We could get nice and comfortable and talk for as long as you liked.”

“Oh, come on,” Nursey says, grinning back at him. “I’m not going to make it _that_ easy for you.”

“I didn’t really think you would,” Chowder admits, smiling again and looking down to where color is slowly seeping from the tea leaves into his cup. He clears his throat a little, and says, “On that note, though, I didn’t really come by just to say hello.”

Nursey arches one eyebrow, swirling the water in his mug and nearly burning himself again. “Oh?”

Chowder nods. “Well, first of all, I wanted to apologize a bit for Dex,” he says, a small smile flashing briefly over his face when Nursey snorts.

“Is that really _your_ job?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Well. No,” Chowder admits. “But i figure you probably don’t really want him showing up on your doorstep unannounced, anyway.”

“Not at the moment, no,” Nursey acknowledges. “Not exactly.”

“You should understand,” Chowder says, leaning towards him a little bit, earnestly, “he’s certainly not always like that. I mean, believe me, he wouldn’t be my closest friend if he was. I’ll grant that he’s been pretty miserable to be around for the past few days, but I certainly hope that that will end up being temporary, if we can find some sort of alternative solution to him pacing a hole in our floor because he’s irritated by you and he can’t figure out why.”

Nursey laughs a little, the sound somewhere between dubious and charmed. “I can relate to that, at least.”

Chowder nods, leaning in a little farther. “He shouldn’t have behaved like he did,” he says, “and believe me, I’ve told him that _multiple_ times, but he — well, he doesn’t like surprises, especially not when he thinks he understands a situation and then it turns out he doesn’t really. And if nothing else, Nursey, you _definitely_ surprised him.”

“I surprised him,” Nursey says, slowly, not quite a question, and Chowder nods again.

“Dex has a… a modus operandi, I guess you could call it,” he explains. “He has a knack for finding just the most irritating kinds of humans, arrogant and terrible, and usually at first he just sees their talent, and that’s what draws him in, but then eventually he realizes that they’re all inevitably self-centered and usually cruel, and he charms them to court almost just to spite them, and he _hates_ them. And that’s what he was expecting you to be,” he says, all in a rush as the words almost trip out of his mouth, “but you weren’t. And he doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s not handling it well, at all, but I — I don’t want you to think _too_ poorly of him.”

For a long moment, there’s silence in the wake of Chowder’s outpouring, as Nursey just stands there and clutches his now mostly-brewed cup of tea and blinks at him. It’s hard to tell, with his skin tone, but Chowder thinks he can just barely see color rising high in his cheeks.

“I mean,” he says eventually, half-turning away from Chowder, his grip tightening on his mug. “I mean, I — I still want to hear an apology _from him_. And proof that he really _isn’t_ like that all the time. But I also… I mean, I kind of, uh, get it. And it’s not like I wasn’t needling him, on purpose, pretty much from the get-go, so…”

“I meant to ask you about that, actually,” Chowder says, immediately latching on — he honestly didn’t think Nursey was going to just _hand_ him an opening that good. “I mean, do you just have no instinct for self-preservation, or…?”

Nursey shrugs, letting out a sort of stilted little laugh. “I mean, did you see the way he blew up?”

“I’ll say it again,” Chowder replies, trying his best not to smirk. “Do you just have no instinct for self-preservation, _or…?_ ”

Nursey isn’t, after all, that much harder a nut to crack than Dex. Chowder may know Dex much better, but this particular situation isn’t turning out to require genius-level intuition or interrogation skills beyond those of a particularly determined kitten. Chowder takes a moment to lament, briefly, that he seems to be well on his way to building up a stable of ultimately well-intentioned but emotionally dense and criminally beautiful young men — though, he supposes, there are worse things. 

“It’s the stupidest cliche, isn’t it?” Nursey mutters at length, still not looking at Chowder, scrubbing his hand over his face. “The naive maiden charmed and besotted by the handsome faerie lord? Not that I’m a maiden,” he adds candidly, laughing a little, “but…” “You don’t strike me as naive, either,” Chowder says gently, laying a hand on Nursey’s arm. “Listen. I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I can _promise_ you that Dex wasn’t trying to charm you. If anything, he was trying his hardest not to — it’s his most classic self-defense technique when he’s feeling like he might be vulnerable.”

“And yet I _was_ charmed,” Nursey says, almost accusatory. “Then it must have been something real, don’t you think?” Chowder asks him in return. “Real?” “I swear to you,” Chowder says, “it wasn’t any trick. When you were sleeping, and he talked to you — that was to send you to court, not to send you to _him_. If I’m right about what he was trying to do, you wouldn’t even have known we were there, had it worked correctly. You didn’t notice me for quite some time after you woke up, did you?” “But I noticed him,” Nursey points out. “Interesting,” Chowder says blandly. “And what might have caused that, do you think, if it wasn’t the spell? If, in fact, it worked _counter_ to the spell, which was urging you not to notice him at all?” Nursey stares at him, blinking; his compleious seems to mostly hide any flush, but Chowder doesn’t really need the physical proof to know that he’s hit home. “You know, I sort of thought he was the dangerous one,” Nursey says slowly, “but if nothing else, _that_ was pretty naive of me, wasn’t it?” Chowder tips back his head and laughs, delighted, then leans in for a hug, sweeping Nursey towards him with enough force that he lets out a little _oof_. “You’re not the first to make that mistake, and you won’t be the last,” he says cheerfully, and then backs away toward the main room again, setting his ultimately untouched mug of tea down on the counter. It smells wonderful, some kind of herbal blend, but it’s better, he thinks, to get out now rather than to dawdle around long enough to drink it. The soft touch, he’s found — or at least semi-soft — works better than the hammer, in some cases. “Well, I hope I’ve given you some things to think about. Are you feeling convinced yet, Nursey?” Nursey clears his throat and shoots him a wry smile. “I’m — well. I’m feeling something.” “I’m sure you are,” Chowder agrees amiably, grinning at him very much like the cat that got the cream. “I’ll let you think about that, okay?” “You,” Nursey says, pointing a finger at him even as he heads for the door, “are a menace.” “And don’t ever doubt it,” Chowder agrees, and shoots him one last smile before ducking out of his little house and back into the outside world. 

—

Chowder is practically waltzing on moonbeams for his entire journey back to court. In many ways, he thinks, that had gone better than he could have ever hoped. Now all it will take, he’s mostly certain, is working on Dex a little more. That might, at first glance, seem like a much more difficult task than having a chat with Nursey, but after many long years, Chowder knows secrets of Dex-handling that lesser beings can only dream of. 

So, of course, he bursts right into their cottage — out on the edge of things, far enough from the main hustle and bustle of court to keep them both happy — perfectly pleased with himself, all but bursting at the seams, and immediately says, “Good news! I’ve solved all of your — _what_ are you doing?”

“You’re home early,” Dex says, frozen solid in the middle of their sitting room, sheafs and sheafs of parchment spread out on the floor all around him, his hair mussed up like he’s been all but yanking it out in frustration.

“I don’t remember telling you when I would be back,” Chowder replies, equally frozen, for his part, in the doorway, trying to make sense of what he can only hope isn’t a complete breakdown on Dex’s part. “ _What are you doing?”_

“Nothing,” Dex says quickly, then immediately starts to scramble to gather things up before Chowder can see what he’s doing. “Nothing, absolutely, literally nothing, I was starting at the walls and contemplating silence, I was peeling potatoes, I was—”

“Seven hells,” Chowder says, snatching a nearby sheet before Dex can stop him and blatantly ignoring his cry of protest. “Is this poetry?”

“I hate you,” Dex groans, giving up, at last, on hiding the evidence of his activities and instead collapsing back onto the pile that remains scattered around him, sending parchment flying all around the room. “I hate you and I’m leaving immediately.”

“No — Dex!” Chowder cries, grinning ear to ear and practically skipping over in order to kneel down near him. “This is _amazing!_ ”

Even in his fit of dramatics, Dex pauses to look up at Chowder and frown. “No it’s not, it’s terrible.”

“No, I don’t mean the poetry,” Chowder says, waving one hand dismissively. “The poetry _is_ kind of terrible, though I’m sure you just need practice. I meant it’s incredible that you’re trying! This is _great_ news. I was just speaking to Nursey, and—”

“You were _what?_ ” Dex interrupts, just shy of shrieking. He was already pretty red in the face at being caught with a pen in his hand, but he’s absolutely crimson now, practically steaming. “I can’t believe you would go without telling me!”

“Of course i went without telling you, you would have tried to stop me,” Chowder says dismissively. “And instead of that, I went, and I talked to him, and the good news is that I think he’s at _least_ as infatuated with you as you are with him, and—”

Dex makes a sound like a dying fish. “What— I don’t— _Infatuated—”_

“You don’t need to pretend, Dex, I’ve known you for decades,” Chowder informs him, though his tone softens quite a bit as he says it. “It’s okay. Like I said, he’s right there with you. But you need to apologize to him, first of all, before anything can go anywhere. Really apologize,” he adds much more sternly.

“I was going to, that’s why I…” Dex gestures, sounding dazed, at his attempts at poetry — Chowder really does think the sentiment is very sweet, trying to speak to Nursey in his own language, as it were, but honestly, maybe an apology is not the best time to try one’s hand at verse; he’ll have to gently but firmly advise Dex against the idea if he continues to try and go through with it. “You — wait, you didn’t tell him — that I —”

“No, of course not,” Chowder assures him, scooting forward a little bit and reaching out to squeeze his upper arms. “I’d never do that. I mean, I might have hinted a little? But honestly, I think he was mostly caught up in what _he_ was feeling. I mean, I definitely made it clear to him that the way you treated him wasn’t because you _didn’t_ like him, but I think that’s really the bare minimum in terms of making sure he doesn’t see you as a complete ass.”

“I did _act_ like a complete ass,” Dex points out, visibly deflating a little. Chowder, on the other hand, is almost cheered by his admission.

“You did,” he agrees readily. “And at this point, I’m mostly just glad I don’t have to _tell_ you that again. But you didn’t act like a complete ass because you _are_ a complete ass, and I want Nursey to have the chance to get to know that, too. Besides — I think he would be good for you. And I think you might be good for him too. You might be good _together_.”

Dex scoffs a little, though he looks _more_ than a little hopeful. “How would you know?” he says, not quite meeting Chowder’s eyes.

Chowder just taps his forehead. “You know I’m always right, Dex.”

“I really do,” Dex admits, then groans. He looks all around them, at the mess he’s made of their front room, and groans again. “...and if I go and apologize to him, do you promise never to mention that you caught me trying to figure out how to do it using poetry?”

“No, the apology doesn’t earn you any special priveleges,” Chowder says. “That’s the very lowest bar. But I won’t tell him anyway, because I love you, and I want you to actually have a shot.”

“Thank you,” Dex says, dryly. Then his face softens, and he repeats, “Really, Chowder — thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Chowder tells him, squeezing his arms again. “I mean, you’re going to have to do a _lot_ of groveling to make up for what an absolute terror you’ve been for the past few days, but you’re welcome anyway.”

“I’m very, very sorry,” Dex says, and when Chowder continues to look on at him dutifully, he adds, “...and I’ll go get started on dinner now?”

“That’s something, at least,” Chowder agrees. He claps Dex on the shoulder and adds, “Make something nice and hearty to give us both strength, and then sleep on it, and then go see Nursey tomorrow. You might bring flowers,” he adds. “He seems like the type who might appreciate flowers.”

“I don’t know that I’d be any better at flowers than I am at poetry,” Dex replies doubtfully.

“You can’t possibly be worse,” Chowder informs him, and it’s a sign that Dex really _is_ sorry that he doesn’t get more than a brief scowl and an eye roll as he laughs and makes his way out of the room, his entire bearing lightened to an unbelievable degree, like the sun coming out after a long, terrible storm.

—

Dex doesn’t come back to the faerie realm for an entire week after he leaves to talk to Nursey. Chowder’s smile is bright enough to be seen from space.


End file.
